August 19, 2020:
The sky is orange.
Ash rains on my Little Mountain Home, in actuality a suburb of shoulder-to-shoulder quarter acre lots with fences, plenty combustible either way. The fire is on the far side of a small river and a tall ridge, which it climbs with impersonal relentlessness, consuming scrub and ranches and creating panic among fenced horses.
The power's on. I'm following events carefully, awaiting an evacuation order which seems inevitable. My escape kit is ready to go: four or five irreplaceable vintage guitars, as many irreplaceable vintage microphones, clothes and meds for a few days, a small stuffed bear cub, a small stuffed wolf cub, and one full-sized plush cheetah. Three minutes to load the car and out.